


A Cure For Dying

by luceluceluceluce



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plotty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-13 04:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luceluceluceluce/pseuds/luceluceluceluce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of poisonings are happening around London, but nobody can find the connection between victims. Sherlock and John take the case- and meanwhile, Sherlock attempts to sort out his emotions regarding John.</p><p>[On hiatus until further notice.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I already have too many projects in progress, you say?
> 
> Nonsense, I say, as I throw another one onto the pile.
> 
> Although I didn't use a specific warning for it, it should be noted that this is a story about serial murder, and so there will be dead people, blood, and other such things.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, spreading butter on toast.

It was early morning, hardly even dawn, and the first glimmers of sunlight gave the room a yellowish glow. (Approximately 5:25 am, judging by the shadows on the blinds.) The toaster made a loud _sproing_ noise and two more pieces of toast popped out, Sherlock deftly adding them to his growing pile. He buttered each of them and stacked them back up, a great, crooked tower. The entire structure wobbled dangerously as Sherlock plucked the top piece off and went about scraping crumbs onto delicate glass slides.

There was a thump from upstairs, the sound of drawers opening and closing. A moment later, feet thudded their way down the staircase. (Slow, unsteady. Most likely cause: sleepiness.)

“Sherlock?” John’s voice, deep and rough from sleep. Sherlock ignored him, sealing the slide and placing it under the microscope.

The footsteps paused, and Sherlock didn’t need to look up to know that John had stopped in the doorway of the kitchen. He carefully made a new slide, with crumbs from the second piece of toast. It was slightly more burnt than the first, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. It was the toaster’s fault. He would have to allow for the variations.

“You made toast,” John commented. It wasn’t a question, so Sherlock didn’t bother answering. If John really wanted him to say something, he wouldn’t point out such an obvious fact.

Sherlock carefully focused the lens of the microscope until he could see the crumbs clearly. Behind him, John let out a sigh and then began shuffling about. (The clank of the kettle, the sink turning on. John was making tea. Good.)

Sherlock scraped more toast, sliding the crumbs into individual test tubes. They sold devices to test for the sorts of things he wanted, but they were surprisingly expensive. A simple chemical cocktail would do just as well.

John set a mug of hot tea beside Sherlock, cupping his own mug with both hands as he leaned against the opposite counter. (The lines around his mouth and forehead were softened- he had managed to evade the chronic nightmares for once.)

“Should I ask what all the toast is for?” John asked, gesturing vaguely at the pile. Sherlock shook his head minutely as he made sure the beakers were even.

“No, not really.”

John sipped his tea. “I’m asking anyway. What’s all the toast for?”

“An experiment.”

A sigh. (More amusement than actual annoyance.) “I gathered that much, yeah.”

“Then I don’t see why you bother asking.”

Another pause. John sipped his tea, and Sherlock finished evening the test tubes, straightening up with satisfaction. (He should probably think of some way to get John out of the house for the rest of the morning, just in case the apartment’s ventilation wasn’t quite as good as he’d expected.)

“Any case today?” John asked, as Sherlock turned to the sink to rinse his hands. (Reminder: do not allow John to use the toaster until it was cleaned. Probably safest to just get a new one, actually.)

“If this experiment goes well, I’ll have one solved by dinner.”

John made a vague noise of acknowledgement. “You should really sweep up the floor, Sherlock, there’s crumbs everywhere.”

“Mrs. Hudson will soon enough.” (It was a Thursday- she would wake up at 7:30 for her morning shows and breakfast. She had no reason to go shopping, so she would likely check in on them by 10 at the latest.) (John didn’t need to know all that, though. He was already heading toward the front door, where he would fetch the morning paper just like always, snagging a piece of toast off the pile along the way-)

“Stop,” Sherlock said, more loudly than he’d intended. He reached forward to snatch the toast from John’s hand. “That’s really, really not a very good idea.”

John stared at him. (He was holding his mug crookedly- the tea was dangerously close to spilling.) “Why…?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. He’d hoped to avoid telling John, as he was fairly certain that the experiment would be met with disapproval, no matter how useful it was to solving the case.

“ _Sherlock,_ ” John said, in his best serious voice. Sherlock sighed in annoyance.

“The Albertson case,” he explained. “It was in the papers yesterday.”

John’s chin jutted out slightly. (A habit, when he tried to remember things. It still surprised Sherlock how remarkably expressive John was.) “Right. It was a woman who’d poisoned her husband, right? Slipped something into his breakfast.”

Sherlock nodded. “She had, apparently, soaked hydrogen cyanide into her husband’s bread before toasting it and serving it to him. It’s highly poisonous, often used in its gas form for capital punishment. The amounts of hydrogen cyanide applied to the toast certainly should have been enough to kill a man his size. However,” Sherlock paused dramatically (he really did love this part of the reveal- the look of rapt attention on John’s face was practically addictive), “hydrogen cyanide evaporates near boiling point. A normal toaster should have been enough to evaporate nearly all of it. Of course, I can’t be certain until I test, but I believe the wife is innocent- or, at the very least, guilty of only attempted murder. ” Sherlock allowed himself a small smile- it really was quite simple. Amazing that the police hadn’t noticed, but of course they were far too bogged down in the legality of it all. He glanced to John, searching for the admiring gleam in his eyes that made the explanation so satisfying.

Instead, Sherlock found John’s expression strangely twisted. (Wide eyes, open mouth- surprise, shock. Furrowed brow- concern? Anger? Yes, fist clenched, definitely anger.)

“Sherlock,” John said. “Did you just evaporate hydrogen cyanide _inside the apartment?_ ”

“I had the window open,” Sherlock said, quite reasonably. “The ventilation should be enough to-”

John wasn’t listening, too busy grabbing Sherlock’s sleeve and dragging him toward the door. He stuffed his feet into his shoes, snatched his coat from the closet, and forced Sherlock down the stairs.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock said, annoyed. “It’s perfectly fine, do you really think I would evaporate a poison inside the apartment if I wasn’t perfectly sure that-”

“Yes,” John snapped, cutting him off. He hauled Sherlock all the way down the stairs and out onto the street, where he finally relinquished his hold on Sherlock’s (now crumpled) shirtsleeve.

“Honestly,” Sherlock sighed.

“No, no, don’t.” John flapped his hands, agitated. “For god’s sake, Sherlock, what if it got into Mrs. Hudson’s apartment-”

“Don’t be absurd, the ventilation systems are entirely separate-”

“And you weren’t even wearing gloves!”

Sherlock resisted the urge to turn his back on John. “I washed my hands. You’re overreacting.”

“Meaning that you washed hydrogen cyanide _down the sink._ ” John took deep breaths, scowling. “I’m serious, Sherlock, never do something like that again.”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock sighed, resigned. (John was working himself into a fret over nothing.) (Probably.)

The street was cold, and unlike John, Sherlock hadn’t thought to grab his coat or scarf. When he sighed in annoyance, the air came out in a puff of smoke. 

At least he was wearing shoes.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out quickly. Lestrade. (Perfect, a case. That would distract John. He would just have to be sure not to forget about the toast experiment.)

__

_ New case. Serial poisonings, relationship between victims unknown. Included is latest victim’s address. _

__

Perfect. Sherlock texted back immediately.

_ On my way. –SH _

“Who was that? Lestrade?” John craned his neck, attempting to see the screen. Sherlock slid the phone back into his pocket as he hailed down a cab.

“Yes.” A half-beat pause. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess. You never look that cheerful when Mycroft texts you.”

Sherlock scoffed as a cab pulled to a halt at the curb. “Hurry up, I want to get to the scene before forensics muddles everything up.”

John rolled his eyes, but he followed Sherlock into the back seat without hesitation.

By the time they arrived at the crime scene, the sun had risen fully. It was a neat little house over in Wimbledon, in a quiet neighborhood. (Brick, two stories. Garden wall newer than the rest of the house- less than five years old, judging by the weathering on the mortar. Grass in need of a trim.) The police cars and ambulance looked out of place on the quiet street.

Lestrade was waiting by the front door. “Sherlock,” he said. (Relieved, but trying not to show it. He knew he was in over his head. As always.)

“Who’s on forensics?” Straight to business. (Had to hurry if Anderson was in there messing everything up.)

Lestrade sighed, and that was all the evidence Sherlock needed. He pushed through the door, Lestrade and John hurrying behind him.

“How many murders? Why wasn’t this in the paper?” Sherlock demanded.

“It was all very quiet, spaced out. Over a matter of years, but they’d been so infrequent that they were only brought to our attention about six months ago. At least seven people killed, but we think there might have been over twenty. We’ve got people looking in the records now-”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock waved an impatient hand. “How was he found? By who?”

“His name’s David Cormack. He’d been out at the pub, came home late. His wife found him the next morning.” Lestrade pointed toward the kitchen. “Hadn’t heard him come in.”

Sherlock stepped into the room, only dimly aware of John and Lestrade behind him. (Standard kitchen. Good quality utensils, several years old. Dishes piling up in the sink. One of the chairs at the kitchen table had been knocked over.) Lestrade carefully shooed the forensics team out (“Him again?” Anderson shouted. “Honestly, Detective Inspector, I’m perfectly capable-” “Yes, yes, I’m sorry, Anderson.”) as Sherlock crouched beside the body. (Tall, greying hair, stubble across his cheeks and a nose that looked as if it had been broken one time too many. The clothes were good quality, but worn, and slightly too big. The man had lost weight recently. A bruise on his head- he must have fallen to the floor. No broken skin.)

“John.”

“Yes?”

The reply was instant. John was standing by David Cormack’s head, his hands behind his back, surveying the body with an unwavering doctor’s eye. (So reliable. Doctor, soldier, companion, friend. Sherlock felt a vague, inexplicable rush of pride.)

“Time and cause of death, if you will.”

He moved aside to give John room, and John obediently knelt, snapping on his latex gloves. As he worked, Sherlock turned back to Lestrade.

“What do we know about him?”

Lestrade cleared his throat. (The bags under his eyes were pronounced- he’d been having trouble with his wife again.) “David Cormack, age fifty-two. Worked as a contractor, married for twenty three years. One son, currently attending school in France.”

“Contractor,” Sherlock hummed. “No connection to the other victims?”

“None. No friends, no family in common. Don’t frequent the same locations, nothing. I have the files back at the Yard- I’m guessing you’d like to have a look.”

“I’ll pick them up once we’re finished here.” Sherlock pressed his hands together thoughtfully. “Where’s the wife?”

“In the living room, being questioned. She’s taking it hard, poor woman.”

Sherlock ignored the last bit. “I’ll need to talk to her as well.”

“Right,” John said suddenly, sitting back on his heels. “Died about four hours ago, I’d say. Asphyxiation.”

“Asphyxiation?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. (Yes, of course. Obvious. The burst blood vessels in his eyes.) “From what?”

John pressed his lips together. “Poison, I’d say.”

“Fits the other victims,” Lestrade said. “There’s a sample being worked on now, but the team thinks it’s some sort of concentrated snake venom.” (Over 600 poisonous species of snakes. Not overly helpful.)

Sherlock watched the man for a moment longer, as if intent on unraveling his secrets by pure force of will. At last, he blinked and looked up at Lestrade.

“We need to talk to the wife.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez it's been a while!  
> Now that I'm back on a proper school schedule I'm hoping I'll be able to write more often, but I make no promises (and take no prisoners.)

The wife was sitting on the sofa, sniffling into a tissue.

“Be nice,” Lestrade hissed as Sherlock swept into the room. (Nice was for people who didn’t have serial killers to stop.) He took a seat on the frighteningly green armchair across from her (old but well cared for- carried sentimental value) as John took up station standing at his elbow.

“Hello, Mrs. Cormack,” Sherlock said, doing his best to keep his tone kind. (Dyed hair, but no makeup- well, of course, her husband had just been killed- clothes that had been the height of fashion several years ago, and expensive shoes that suggested a fair amount of vanity. Office worker, probably a secretary of some sort judging from the pen marks on her right shirtsleeve. She still wore her wedding ring, and twisted at it absently- a long-standing habit. Overall: dull, average. Not likely a suspect, unless she was hiding some sort of genius.) 

Mrs. Cormack sniffed at the tissue one last time before meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “Are you with the police?” She asked, her voice wavering.

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. This is my colleague, John Watson. I’m here to find out who murdered your husband.” Sherlock waved his hand vaguely, urgent to get through the pleasantries. “If you could answer just a few questions, it would be greatly beneficial.”

Mrs. Cormack swallowed thickly. “O-of course! Whatever I can do to help.”

“Good.” Sherlock leaned forward. “Now, can you tell me exactly what happened?”

“I’ve already told the police-”

“Yes, well, now tell me.”

Mrs. Cormack blinked, but obliged. “Well, David went out to the pub last night ‘round seven, like he usually does on Thursday. He’s a regular, he’s got friends there. Liked to watch the game or chat with them, and he often isn’t back until late, so when he wasn’t back by… ten? Half past? I didn’t think anything of it. I went up to bed, but when I woke up ‘round six thirty this morning for work, he wasn’t in bed. I got nervous. I hurried downstairs and there he was-” She choked back another sob- “Lying on the floor, and he wasn’t b-breathing! I called the police right away, but,” she stopped again, shook her head. “Too late. He was g-gone.”

“Yes, evidently.” Sherlock leaned back, ignoring a slight, disapproving cough from John. “Did he say anything before he left? Act strangely?”

Mrs. Cormack thought a moment. “No, can’t say he did. He’d had a hard day at work- he’s starting to feel his age, you know, the smoking finally catching up to him. He just came home and watched some telly while I made dinner, and then he left for the pub without hardly a word.”

“I don’t suppose your husband had any enemies? Anyone who would want to poison him?”

“Heavens, no!” Mrs. Cormack looked borderline hysterical. (Almost definitely not a suspect.) “A fair man, David was. He could be stern at times, but a good man and a hard worker, and- no, no, certainly nobody who wanted him dead!”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. (This wasn’t any good. There had to be a motive somewhere. Somewhere…)

“Did your husband have any family in London?”

“Only a brother. His parents have passed, I’m afraid.” (Aha. A jealous brother? In need of money, or…?)

“His brother’s profession?”

“He’s an engineer, actually. Does quite well for himself, has a house over in Chelsea. He and David had some differences, but… oh, I don’t look forward to breaking the news to him.” (Likely not for money, then, but it would be best to check up on him anyway- there could be other reasons. Jealousy, perhaps? Mrs. Cormack was not an unattractive woman for her age. In any case, nothing more Mrs. Cormack could bring light to.)

“That should be all for now, Mrs. Cormack. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

She nodded tearfully. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes, thank you v-very much.” She blew her nose loudly as Sherlock stood with a nod, trusting John to follow him as he stalked out of the room.

“Well?” Lestrade asked, catching him before he reached the front door.

“I’ll meet you at the yard to pick up the files of the other victims. They’re being kept at St. Bart’s?”

“Most of them should be, yeah. I can call the rest in for this evening.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock clapped his hands together. (Molly’s lunch break ended at 12:30, which left just enough time to get the files and head over to St. Bart’s.) “Come along, John,” Sherlock called, and swept out the door.

The streets were busy (construction combined with the inescapable morning rush), but at last the cab dawdled to a stop in front of the familiar yard. Sherlock hopped out and nearly dashed through the entrance while John was left to pay the driver. (Note: pay John back. If John even remembered. For a generally frugal man, he was hopelessly forgetful when it came to such things.) Sherlock stepped into the lobby of the Yard, only to be trapped, waiting for Lestrade to arrive and unlock the filing cabinet in his office. (John refused to let Sherlock pick the lock, even after Sherlock explained how much time it would save. Frustrating.)

Donovan walked past exactly six times as Sherlock sat folded in one of the uncomfortable lobby chairs, and smirked wider with every one, until Sherlock made a loud comment about her stockings that caused John to disguise his laugh as a coughing fit. For some reason, she didn’t walk past again after that, and Sherlock was left to fiddle impatiently with his phone as the minutes ticked by with impossible slowness. John spent the time trying to coax the coffee machine into producing something edible. He finally came away with a vaguely burnt-smelling styrofoam cup just as Lestrade walked through the door.

“What a start to the day,” Lestrade muttered as he led the pair toward his office. “I’d like to get this sorted quickly, Sherlock, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed absently, following Lestrade inside. “Trouble with your wife again? Probably over the fact you forgot your anniversary last Friday- and the family dog has an infection.”

Lestrade froze for a split second, his face running quickly through a series of emotions, each reigned in quickly only to be replaced by another. After a long, tense moment, he breathed out slowly and slapped a thick set of files down on the desk. “There you go. I need them back in by Monday, or it’ll be my neck on the line.” (The “now get out of my office” was left unsaid, but certainly implied.)

“Thank you,” John said hurriedly, as Sherlock snatched the files and nearly dashed from the office.

It was easy enough to catch a cab, and after some quickly barked directions Sherlock was free to begin picking apart the files in the back seat. Unfortunately, John chose that moment to speak.

“You shouldn’t have said that to Lalonde, Sherlock.”

“Mm.” (Previous victim: Catarina Perez, age sixty five. Deceased husband, two children, flat down in Peckham. Occupation: housekeeper. Spanish immigrant. Murdered two months and nine days ago.) “You didn’t seem to mind when I spoke that way to our dear Inspector Donovan.”

“That’s different and you know it,” John said, but he was smirking, and he leaned closer to get a look at the files. Sherlock angled it so John could read over his shoulder as he skimmed the report. Snake venom, inserted through a syringe (clever: they could concentrate the venom more than if they had simply used a real snake, meaning less chance of survival.) Time of death around 11am, found by her daughter that same evening.

Sherlock handed the file over to John and began rifling through the rest of the stack. (John read more slowly, not that Sherlock could blame him- he had never met someone who could read faster, not counting Mycroft, and Sherlock was fairly sure that Mycroft was cheating somehow.) The victims were generally middle aged- late forties, fifties, sixties- but there were abnormalities in the pattern of victims. A seven year old girl, a teenaged boy, a ninety-three year old great grandmother, already on the brink of death. The word that came to mind was _erratic,_ and it made Sherlock giddy. This was a real puzzle, a series of seemingly hopeless pieces of information that he would slowly, carefully piece together into something beautiful and impressive. The looks on everyone’s faces would be absolutely delicious.

Sherlock had skimmed the files by the time the cab lurched to a halt across the street from St. Bart’s. John was still picking through them, taking in the causes of death with his practiced doctor’s eyes. (He would never say as much, but Sherlock could see he was curious to see the bodies, to pick their stories apart. He and Sherlock were similar in some ways.)

Sherlock paid the cab fare (pretended not to notice John already reaching for his wallet) and dashed across the street to the hospital. John, shouting something about cars and danger and “ _crosswalks exist for a reason, Sherlock!”_ , hurried behind.

The depths of the hospital smelled the way they always did- like rubbing alcohol and death. Sherlock caught Molly just as she came in from lunch break. (No lipstick. Lestrade hadn’t called to say they were coming, then.)

“Oh! Sherlock! And John- I didn’t know you two would be here today.” (Obviously.)

“We’re working on a case,” John said helpfully.

“Of course!” Molly nodded, as if John had said something insightful. Sherlock chose that moment to jump in.

“We were hoping you could pull out a few bodies for us,” he said, giving her his most winning smile. (She blinked, her lips parting slightly. So simple, poking her in just the right direction.) “The first would be Catarina Perez. I have her file here.”

Molly wavered for a moment, but Sherlock quirked an eyebrow up in a way that managed to look both pleading and flirtatious, and Molly swallowed. “Right, I’ll go fetch her.”

“Wonderful. We’ll be in the examination room.” Sherlock tossed her one last smile before turning back down the stiflingly clean hall, John’s footsteps clattering along behind him.

Molly left quickly after dropping off the body- “I’m sorry, but I really do have some paperwork I need to get through. Just let me know when you’re done with it, alright?”- and Sherlock went about collecting blood and tissue samples while John examined the body.

“Sherlock,” John said at last, after several silent minutes, “there’s nothing here that wasn’t in the file. I’m not even quite sure what I’m looking for- they died from some sort of poison, just like the report said. No sign of struggle, nothing.”

“Well, she didn’t inject the poison into herself,” Sherlock muttered, capping the lid on a blood sample. “She’s right handed, yet the injection is on the right arm.”

“You _are_ supposed to inject yourself in your stronger arm. Maybe she-”

“Don’t be an idiot, John, look at how neat the injection is. This was done by someone professional.”

John paused a moment, considering. (That was one of his finer qualities- he actually _thought_ about Sherlock’s words. It was refreshing.) At last, he nodded, giving in. “True. I don’t imagine her hands could have been too steady in the first place, with her drinking problem.”

Sherlock paused for a fraction of a moment. Yes, a drinking problem. It was obvious now. The chronically flushed cheeks, the slight stretch marks on her hips indicating sudden weight gain. (The drinking itself probably wasn’t of any consequence- that factor didn’t tie all the victims together, and she’d been sober at her time of death. But still, stupid of him to have missed it. Foolish. And even more foolish for him to assume John really had seen nothing of consequence.)

“I’ll take these samples to the lab,” Sherlock said, and John nodded.

“Shall I tell Molly to put the body away?”

“Yes.” A half-second pause. “Thank you.”

John raised his eyebrows slightly as Sherlock turned away from the corpse and carried his samples from the room, but had the decency not to say anything.


End file.
